


speechgiver's jaw

by kapbird



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Face Slapping, Oral Sex, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 06:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11526453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kapbird/pseuds/kapbird
Summary: Sokrates is very, very tired of listening to Ibex speak.





	speechgiver's jaw

**Author's Note:**

> hey! this fic portrays really badly negotiated bdsm in the context of what would be an incredibly unhealthy relationship. in real life, make sure to take the time to have those negotiation talks, and don't enter into relationships based on a desire to assert or give up power! it is always best to be safe.

“Artemisios,” Ibex says, standing at the door. “We really should cooperate on this, if you want to start making decisions, there are things you’ll need to understand about how—”

 

“Ibex.” Sokrates shoves a hand through their hair, buzzed on one side and long on the other, face lined with exhaustion. “I know how a fleet works, dude, I’m good. Go away.”

 

“You?” Ibex scoffs. “You’re a traitor, not a general. You can defer to the experts like you should be doing, or you can make mistakes that’ll get us all killed, and I prefer the former.”

 

“Ibex,” Sokrates says, voice aching with tiredness, “shut the fuck up.” They step away from the door and before they can close it, Ibex slips into the room. It’s a trick he’s pulled before; his quarry is always so unsettled that he gets the upper hand just by being there. He can’t imagine Sokrates is any different.

 

“Artemisios.” He draws himself up to his full height. “Sokrates. We’re going to talk about this, whether you like it or not.”

 

“No,” Sokrates says, turning, and suddenly there is a tremendous stinging pain in Ibex’s jaw. He collapses against Sokrates’ bed, hand clapping to his face.

 

“I _said_ ,” Sokrates says flatly, hoisting Ibex off the floor by his collar, “to _shut the fuck up._ ”

 

Ibex swallows, trying to meet Sokrates’ eyes. It takes effort; he can feel his cheek bruising.

 

“Now.” Sokrates’ voice is low, pitched into their throat. “Are you gonna listen to me, or do I have to hit you again?”

 

He swallows again, shifting his legs. It doesn’t quite work; he can still feel himself against his pants. “No,” he lies, voice shaking. “No, you won’t have to hit me again.”

 

Sokrates’ mouth quirks at that. “We’ll see,” they say, dropping him roughly onto the bed. “Take that stupid suit off,” they say, turning to close the door to their room. “You look like a jackass.”

 

Ibex watches them as they walk over to the door console, paying attention to the way the dark skin of their shoulders shows from underneath their tank top, the way the colorful orange-red fabric of their skirt bunches over their hips. He does not take his suit off. Instead, he braces.

 

The blow comes just as he relaxes, wondering (worrying) if perhaps he might not be struck after all. It is hard and brutal, across his opposite cheek, and before he knows it, Sokrates has him by the throat.

 

“You’re _really_ here to test my patience, huh,” they say, casting a critical eye over him. “Suit off, now, or I promise you you’re gonna stain it, Executive.”

 

Ibex complies, slowly. He isn’t _trying_ to push them, per se, but part of him feels like he can’t help it, like a kind of terrible inertia of the self demands that he buck against the boundaries Sokrates imposes on him, in spite of and because of the punishments he knows he’ll receive. Sokrates strokes his face as he removes the lower part of the suit, their thumb caressing the ridges of his cheeks, his slowly-bruising eyelid, his soft, moisturized lips. He is proud of his body, in some ways; a man like him has to keep in impeccable shape, if only for presentation’s sake.

 

“Now what,” he tries to say. He can’t quite finish the words before Sokrates’ thumb has pushed its way into his mouth. There is a moment of exploration before suddenly they have hold of his tongue, and then they _yank,_ and Ibex makes a noise halfway between a yelp and a whine. They drag him from a sitting position to a laying one on the bed, working their way up to rest their back against the head of it. Ibex notices he’s level with their thighs and tries not to think too much about it.

 

Slowly, slowly, slowly, Sokrates pulls him up their body, and then their hand is out of his mouth and their tongue meets his.

 

Ibex has had kisses that felt hungry. This isn’t that. This is angry. It is aggressive and domineering and filled with a barely contained wrath, and Ibex wonders at how Sokrates can hide that kind of ire in sidelong looks of mild irritation. He can feel Sokrates’ hands running over his body. He moves his own hands up, hoping to grasp their hips, and then suddenly he keens as Sokrates tweaks his nipple. They bite down on his lip as they pull away; Ibex pulls back too, hoping they’ll draw blood.

 

“ _Don’t_ touch,” Sokrates hisses. Ibex’s hands still. Sokrates pulls their hand down his front, digging their nails into his flesh. “Eidolons. You’ve never had to ask for anything in your life, have you?”

 

As Ibex searches for a way to respond, Sokrates shifts and pushes him onto his knees.

 

“What’s going to happen now,” Sokrates purrs, “is that you’re going ask me to hit you. You’re gonna beg me, Ibex, you’re going to get on your hands and your knees and say please, and if I like what I hear, maybe I’ll do it. And if you’re _very_ good, I might let you do something useful with that mouth.”

 

Ibex nods, mind hazy with anticipation. It occurs to him in a distant way that Sokrates hasn’t removed any of their clothes.

 

“Good boy.” Sokrates smiles wickedly at him. “So?”

 

“I—” Ibex swallows, then licks his lips. “I—hit me. Please. Five times.”

 

“You’ll need to be more specific than that!” Sokrates’ voice is filled with a kind of falsely innocent cheer. “Open or closed hand? How hard? Where?”

 

“Five times. Across the face, right cheek, open palm. _Please._ ” He shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to see it coming, so he can pretend that it’s not coming because he wanted it.

 

They are deliciously, unsettlingly irregular. A sharp, sharp thwack. Then, nothing. Another beat, and then two more, right in a row. A fourth, just as he’s returning to position. And then, after an agonizingly long moment, just as he’s about to ask for the fifth, it comes like a firework, exploding against him. Lights are shining in his eyelids, he can barely think, all he can feel is a pain he desperately wishes he didn’t want.

 

Slowly, slowly, he comes back to himself. There’s a throbbing in his face. He’s sideways on the bed, nearly curled up; Sokrates is stroking his face gently. There are tears in his eyes.

 

“Good boy,” Sokrates is murmuring. “You’ve been a very good boy.”

 

Ibex shudders against them, squeezing his eyes shut. The voice in his head, the one that sounds uncannily like Maryland and insists that she would hate him, laughs. He ignores it.

 

Sokrates runs the back of their hand across his cheek, down his face and neck, across his side. “I said that if you were very good, you’d get to do something useful with that mouth. That’s still on the table, if you’d like.” Their voice is gentle. Ibex can’t stand it, so he nods.

 

“Good,” they say. “On your knees on the side of the bed.”

 

He complies, crawling off the bed, turning to face Sokrates’ hips as they pull their skirt up past their knees. This, he can do; if nothing else, he has a speechgiver’s jaw. He kisses his way up their thighs and worries at the skin with his teeth, and he takes a small piece of satisfaction at the way they bite their lip and the way their hands clench the sheets. He swirls his tongue around the length and wetness of them, up and down and up again, and then slowly, surely, takes them into his mouth.

 

Sokrates gasps gently, running a hand over his head. “Good boy,” they murmur. “You’re doing so well.” Ibex shudders, pushing down on their length until they are all the way to the back of his throat, and for a minute he just holds them there, fully unable to breathe, gagging on them.

 

And then up, and down and up again, his hands pressing and scratching at Sokrates' thighs, and quiet gasps and moans of pleasure from above. It’s easy, it’s simple. It feels quiet, even, a pleasant contrast to the explosive tension that usually hangs between them. Ibex hates that he likes it.

 

Soon enough, Sokrates is clenching his muscles where his neck meets his shoulder; they’ve been on E long enough that they don’t quite spill into him, but he makes sure to lap up their wetness. It lingers on his mouth, across his face, and he sags quietly into the bed. Sokrates’ hand is running over him, mumbling soft praise.

 

Ibex’s hand drifts absently down between his own legs, and he’s about to touch himself when Sokrates starts. He freezes as they glare down at him.

 

“No.” Sokrates’ voice is like iron. “You are absolutely not allowed.”

 

Ibex swallows, looking up at Sokrates, begging with his eyes in a way he can’t with his mouth, and he finds no mercy in the Apostolosian traitor’s eyes.

 

“You’re going to clean yourself up,” Sokrates says, voice even. “You’re going to put on your suit, and you’re going to leave. What you’re _not_ going to do is touch yourself in the next twenty-four hours.”

 

He swallows, getting up slowly, complying. He washes his face in Sokrates’ small sink, towels off, dresses, body wrought with tension. Sokrates watches him from their bed, and as Ibex looks at their gaze, he thinks that he underestimated their capacity to play monarch.

 

Sokrates stands as Ibex opens the door to leave. “See how long you can go without talking, too,” they say, and Ibex hates himself for it, but he nods.

**Author's Note:**

> ibex fuckin sucks, is the thing, and i've wanted sokrates to shut them up for the longest time and then i finally got a push from the discord writeserver and here we are


End file.
